Rafael Yglesias - Only Children

That was the simple truth. Horrible, unspeakable. It was the truth Peter was rejecting, fighting off like a horde of insects, frantically, hopelessly. Could he change it? By an act of will, by sheer determination?

The phone rang. He grabbed for it.

“Hello,” Rachel said. “Everybody safe at home? Can we talk?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. The effort made his voice harsh. “We can’t do this anymore.”

“Talk on the phone?” Her voice stayed cheerful, fought to maintain it. “Or anything?”

“Anything,” he intoned.

“Okay,” she said casually, and hung up. He was surprised at her easy surrender.

Later he walked into Byron’s room, told Mrs. Murphy she could get herself coffee, take a break. “I’ll make myself some tea,” she said. “He’s an angel,” she commented while exiting.

Peter knelt at the side of the baby carriage. Byron had two fingers between his lips, his eyes closed, his mouth working. He had his mother’s olive skin. A vein ran across his bald skull, pulsing as he sucked. Peter realized Rachel thought his resolve wouldn’t last.

He knew it would.

WHEN DR. EPHRON appeared, joining Eric in the slovenly hallway, she had a timid look on her face. Eric thought this was the natural companion to bad news.

“Everything’s fine,” Ephron began. “As you could see, the cord was wrapped three times around the neck. Doesn’t make any difference until pushing. Then it tightens. She’d gotten him so far down I thought we might make it through without a general. But you saw. I had to get baby out quickly. At least we avoided a C section.”

He waited. Now for the bad news.

“Okay? I’m sorry if I yelled. I was startled. Fathers aren’t supposed to be present at a general. Hospital rule. In the confusion— in the rush, I forgot you were there.”

“They’re both okay?” he asked meekly.

Ephron blinked. She smiled, not at him, but to herself. “Absolutely, Mr. Gold! They’re both fine. She’s still under, but she should be coming out of it soon. Your son is fine — you haven’t seen him!” Ephron, her manner now self-assured, opened the doors and whispered something inside. She turned back to him. “You can go in for a second to see him.” She held the door open.

Eric moved into the operating room slowly, his legs advancing, although his mind wanted to retreat. Nina lay on the table, killed. He didn’t look at Nina for more than a second. The sight terrified him. A nurse blocked his vision anyway. She held a mass of white and offered it to Eric with a smile of expectation.

Then it was in his arms. Light, nothing to hold, nothing like the weight it had been in his heart. He looked at the little face, at the little face of his son, his heir, his firstborn.

There was hair everywhere, a black down covering a monkey face. He was squashed; his cheeks, nose, forehead compressed. The eyes were shut, the mouth twisted in a complaint, and he meowed unhappily.

“Oh,” Eric said, miserable for him. He thought of the cord twisting tighter and tighter, desiring his death. Eric rocked his arms back and forth. The features smoothed; the mouth smacked open and closed. “Hello,” he whispered. The eyelids were red, swollen, weary — a battered fighter.

They opened. Just slits. Pools of blue. The red skin winced at the light and closed again. Eric wanted to hide him from the world, the poor thing — hurt, attacked by life.

“Okay,” the nurse said, her arms out to take his son back. “We have to wake up your wife. You can wait for her in recovery.”

Eric glanced at Nina as he turned to go. She was spread out on the table under the lights, her mouth open stupidly, her skin white, a dried-out fruit withered by the sun. He wanted to hold her, to rouse her, to tell her what she had accomplished.

He’s alive, Nina.

And Eric was back out in the hall again, pushed up against the wall, another discarded piece of equipment.

Through the doors, he heard them try to bring her back: “Wake up, Nina! You’ve had a beautiful boy!” Pause. Then, louder: “Wake up, Nina! Time to get up!” It was a joke. This is modern medicine? “Wake up! Wake up! Time to get up! You have a beautiful baby boy! Get up!”

He tried to convince himself that he was tired, that he had panicked unnecessarily about his son, that he was incapable of judging whether Nina was really in trouble.

“Time to get up, Nina! Wake up! Wake up! You had a beautiful baby boy!”

He knew Nina had never had a general anesthetic before. He knew that every once in a great while perfectly healthy people never awoke.

“Time to get up! Wake up! Wake up!”

“Wake up,” he whispered. He forced himself to move closer so he could see through the glass in the doors. Someone held Nina’s face, shaking her head. Her eyes rolled open for a second.

“Get up, Nina! No more sleep! You have a beautiful baby boy!” Their shouts were abrasive, hostile. “Time to get up!”

He hated them. They had saved his child. They were taking care of his wife, preserving her. He hated them.

Nina’s all right, he told himself. He thought of his tiny son, the red, swollen eyelids opening … excitement came up from his soul, rising over the fatigue, the terror.

Eric walked down the hall, back into the labor rooms, past the other worried fathers, and out into the general hallway, up to the pay phone next to the elevators.

His father answered on the first ring.

“Hello, Grandpa,” he said.

Silence at first, then a worried voice: “When?”

“Just a few minutes ago, Dad. You’re the first I called. It’s a boy.”

“Is he all right?”

“He’s fine. He took a beating, but he’s fine.”

“What do you mean he took a beating?”

“They had to knock Nina out and use forceps. They’ve left his face a little puffy and bruised. Like he went fifteen rounds with Joe Frazier.”

“Is she all right?”

“Fine. They’re fine. He’s a beautiful baby boy. He’s got blue eyes.”

He heard his father call out, “A boy! It’s a boy! He has blue eyes! What?”

His mother’s voice said something in the background. “What is she saying?” Eric asked.

“They all have blue eyes when they’re born, she says.”

“Tell her, thanks a lot. I better go. Congratulations, Dad.”

“Call me,” his father pleaded.

“I will.”

Eric took out the crumpled paper in his pocket with Nina’s family’s phone numbers. He had intended to tell all four of her brothers and sisters, but he didn’t have time. He wanted to be in recovery when Nina woke up. He dialed her parents. Nina’s mother, Joan, answered.

“Hi, it’s Eric,” he spoke quickly. He had always felt uncomfortable talking to Nina’s mother. “It’s a boy.”

There was a long silence. He heard something, a material, a fabric rustle. In the background, Nina’s father said, “Who is it?”

“It’s Eric,” Joan said. “Congratulations,” she said into the phone, and he could hear her voice tremble.

“He has blue eyes,” Eric said, not caring that the information was meaningless.

“He has blue eyes,” she repeated. “Is Nina all right?”

“She’s fine. They had to knock her out and use forceps, but everybody’s fine.”

“Why did they have to—” She hesitated, shying away from using his phrase. “Why did they need forceps?”

“He had the cord around his neck—”

Joan gasped.

“But he’s fine. They just needed to get him out quickly. I’d better go. I want to meet Nina in recovery.”

“She’s not in her room yet?”

“No, no. It just happened. I’m in the hallway. I’ll call you later. Can you tell her brothers and sisters?”